


Farewell Wanderlust

by fouryearslater (CheshireCatLife)



Series: My SteveBucky Mixtape [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bars and Pubs, Bucky's a big fat liar but it's for a good cause, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, M/M, POV Bucky Barnes, Recovery, Steve is as desperate to get Bucky back as usual, and he swears profusely, so he has a good old talk with it, the winter soldier is a voice in his head
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-02-23 09:44:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23542918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheshireCatLife/pseuds/fouryearslater
Summary: Bucky remembers. Who he was before. Who he was after. But now he wants to find out who he is now; for better or for worse, he's alive and he needs to figure out what that means for the future. His future.And, well, if that takes having a conversation with the Winter Soldier, so be it.[Farewell Wanderlust - The Amazing Devil]
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: My SteveBucky Mixtape [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1691632
Kudos: 8





	Farewell Wanderlust

**Author's Note:**

> Second installment! After watching The Witcher (I've always been a huge fan, from the books to the games), I fell in love with Joey Batey's portrayal of Jaskier/Dandelion and just had to listen to his band's music, so here this is!
> 
> [this isn't properly beta-d so I can't promise there's no error but hopefully most of the bad ones have been taken out]

The bar holds the familiar stench of booze, despite lacking the ever-present smoke that had lingered back in the day. The lights linger dimly over the dark space, as the cacophony of voices fill shadowed corners with life; he hears a little girl scream and flinches, his metal fingers digging into the cheap wooden bar, ripping its glossy varnish. Hunched over, he takes another shot of his drink, another thing that won’t do shit.

It’s over.

It’s fucking over.

Bucky is over. Tonight, he will celebrate his one and only day of freedom before they find him. He’s out of hiding; he’s done with it. He’s done with fighting to live a life he doesn’t want. He’s done with the erratic race of his heart. He’s done with missing…

No.

Just fucking no.

He downs the rest of the cheap fucking whiskey he bought and urges the decanter back at the barman, ordering a coke instead. He might as well get something he actually likes the taste of; he hasn’t got anyone to impress tonight. This is, for all intents and purposes, his last meal: he might as well fucking enjoy it.

The drink arrives with a bendy straw that makes Bucky smile behind a sheaf of dark hair. _Never had those back in the day, did we pal?_ The voice in his head doesn’t answer. He chases the flimsy plastic with his lips and starts to chew at it as he sips his drink. It calms him, the repetitive motion of something so simple. It also allows him to duck his head whilst scanning the room, keeping an eye on all corners. He’s put his back to the main room, a disastrous choice in itself, but the anxiety is a friend by now, one he’s put up with so long that he’s almost given up on it. Frankly, if someone wants to put a bullet in his head, so be it, he won’t stop them.

“You look like you need a proper drink,” a weak voice says beside him, far too timid coming from the bulk of the man he is. It almost makes him laugh as he turns to the guy, ready to snark back something equally cliche. But he spots the blonde hair before anything else and an old gut-clenching reaction turns his stomach over. The blue eyes come next, illuminated dimly in the badly lit bulbs; like the ocean at night, they’ve turned an ethereal shade of navy, spots of light reflected in their surface like stars.

Steve.

Well, his night’s going to be over quicker than he thought then.

“I’m fine,” he grits out, his teeth snapping like a rabid dog’s. He hides the gesture quickly, realising that whilst he once may have been a rabid dog to most people’s eyes, he wasn’t anymore. He had to be…normal. As much as anyone who had been held captive for 70 years could be. Just…normal.

“I’m Steve,” Steve says in lieu of taking any care of Bucky’s disgruntlement.

“John,” Bucky introduces. It’s as good as saying ‘who the hell are you?’ if Steve’s face is anything to go by. Ignoring the desperate clench of his empty stomach, he tries to pull off a shuddering smile, an apology of sorts, maybe. He just can’t seem to do anything else in front of Steve. It’s nothing like the charming mask he’s once been able to slip on like a second skin but it’s something new, at least, something less lethal than the feral, toothy grin of the Soldier. Although he’d smiled only once, Bucky thinks - or remembers - and it had been at the sight of a little blonde hair, blue-eyed boy beating the shit out of some ugly fella. The Soldier had wanted to help and was electrocuted for his efforts.

“Are you alright?” Bucky tacks on the end, his smile softening. Yet again, he has to ignore the guilty clenching in his gut and smile through it, trying to soften Steve’s wound up features.

“I’m fine,” Steve manages on an exhale, sounding like Bucky’s just punched him. It says just about everything that Bucky has to check that he hasn’t. “How about you?” Ever polite, then, at least some things remain true.

“I’m good, thanks. Wondering why such a handsome guy is coming over to little ol’ me, but I’m not complaining.” The flirting comes as naturally as breathing, in one big gust. It’s like muscle memory; he doesn’t know he’s doing it until he just…is. Is familiar, warm, like the mantel he’s been waiting to regain over the last wretched months. Years, even.

He still can’t manage the smile, but the words come out. Funny how things work out.

Steve finally takes a seat next to him, anxiously fiddling with his hands. It’s a gesture Bucky remembers, although never on hands as big as Steve’s are now. Something about this situation is making Steve lose his Captain America persona and it’s obvious. It even makes Bucky’s heart that little bit warmer, thawing it from the frozen ice block it’s been trained to be.

The bartender comes over and Steve follows Bucky’s example but gets himself a Fanta instead, seemingly ignoring the straw in favour of gulping down the fuzziness in one fell swoop. Never does anything by halves, does he?

“Do you remember me?” Steve’s bitten the bullet, Bucky only feels halfway ashamed that he’s going to have to shoot him with it.

“Am I…supposed to?”

“You’re not actually called John.”

“Ok, this is getting weird,” Bucky begins to slide off his seat, “my name is John.” Something akin to uncertainty flashes across Steve’s features but yet again, Steve’s never done anything by halves.

“You just don’t remember. I promise you, there’s more to this than you know. I know…I don’t know what they’d done to you to make you this but…you’re name is Bucky Barnes.”

“Bucky? What kinda name is that?” Bucky thinks he might use James from now on, but that assumes he’s going to have any sort of agency at all. He’s completely off the stool now, desperately sticking his hand in his pocket.

 _That was a mistake_ , something in his mind whispers.

“Show me your hand,” Steve tries desperately.

“I’d rather not.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not comfortable with people looking at my prosthetic.”

“Why not?”

“You can’t just…ask people that!” So much for politeness. Seems that as soon as Steve Rogers has caught a whiff of Bucky Barnes, he doesn’t care for social convention any longer.

“Show me.” Bucky fakes a worried glance at the bartender, who immediately approaches and asks if there’s trouble. His plan fails, though, as soon as the guy sees Steve. “Oh, I’m sorry, sir!” He apologises immediately, scurrying off, leaving Steve to his own devices.

If Steve was any worse of a person, Bucky would be afraid to know the consequences.

“Come on, Buck, it’s me.”

“And I don’t know who you _are_.”

“Really?” Steve challenges. “You don’t know Captain America?”

“You’re…” Bucky splutters for a few moments. “I thought you’d be…bigger.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Sorry,” Bucky is ashamed of how easy it is to gush over Steve, “it’s just that you’re like…a hero and, sorry I’m just saying any old thing. But you’re…can I take a selfie?” He doesn’t have a phone but the risk doesn’t seem to matter, not when Steve bulldozes further into the realms of ‘how the fuck do you actually get away with this on a regular basis?’

“I can prove it to you, you just have to come with me.”

“You want me to…okay, look, I know you’re Captain America and all but I still have some semblance of reality and I’m not gonna follow some stranger to an undisclosed location.” Ah, logic, Steve could never beat that.

And really, this is going on too long. Bucky knows he’s up for getting caught but it’s more that he’s up for getting _apprehended_ , letting Steve bring him in by choice feels…anticlimactic. Which only leaves one option: get the hell out.

Thing is, he can’t run. No, that would make Steve follow. He needs it to seem logical, like there’s no other choice.

“I’m not gonna take you anywhere you don’t want to go.”

“Then tell me where you’re taking me,” he challenges daringly.

“Stark Tower.”

“And there, you can do what?”

“I can…Tony…Iron Man, I mean. He has technology that can help.”

“So you want me to follow you to superhero quarters and let you read my mind?”

“No, it wouldn’t be like that-“

“It really sounds like that. Sorry, Steve, it was nice meeting you and I hope you find this Bucky guy but I’ve got to go.” He starts to walk away, so devolved into his own mind that he barely hears the racket around him. Nor does he see the hand that grabs his arm.

 _Lazy_ , a voice spits.

“I promise you, you won’t regret it if you come with me.”

“Okay, what the hell, dude. You may be Captain America, but this is getting downright rapey.” Bucky doesn’t quite understand the idea of personal space anymore but he gets that other people hold it in high regard. He’s learning it that _he_ holds it in high regard the longer he’s…’normal’.

“I know this sounds bad, Buck, but you just need to remember. You don’t know it yet but I can help you. We can be-“ he chokes on his words, mincing about three different statements into one long word of gibberish. Bucky knows what he was about to say anyway; it creates something thick in his throat and suddenly swallowing is like trying to eat an apple whole.

“I’ve really got to go,” Bucky reiterates anyway, ripping his arm from Steve’s (he’s really glad that Steve’s not using his full strength; he doesn’t know what he’d do about that. Then again, Steve - no matter how creepy he was being - would never injure a civilian. And he would never, _ever_ , purposefully hurt Bucky. Or, well, so Bucky wishes in his mind).

Bucky stalks out of the bar with his head hung low. At times like these, more than ever, he wishes he could just inhabit some other poor soul’s body. To be someone else, to be able to smile like it didn’t hurt their muscles just to try, to be able to flirt without feeling a gnawing guilt with each and every word said. He wants to be able to dress up and hang out with Steve and not worry about the past, or the fucking FBI, or the…

It isn’t worth thinking about.

He traipses all the way home, Steve’s voice perforating his mind, his grief-stricken eyes flashing with each blink. The guilt eventually leads to dry-heaving over the toilet; a fun side-effect of not having to deal with emotions in so long.

Eventually, sometime in the early morning, he manages to put his head down and get some sleep. Tomorrow would be another day. Better or worse, it would be another day of being _him_.

~*~

Bucky’s mind is being torn apart. The edges buzz like they’re being electrocuted all over again and the frontal lobe throbs as if it’s been hit by a hammer. He’d know, from experience. He’s on a mattress on the floor - his bed, he reminds himself, although it doesn’t feel like it is - which allows him to tumble onto the wooden floor with minimal damage. It’s better here: cooler. He rests his head against the splintered wood and tries to breathe, counting up to ten and back down, over and over until he can only hear the numbers in his mind.

Eventually, he has to clamber up and face the day. He doesn’t exactly have anything to do but he’s on a time limit and he’s desperate to make the most of it whilst he still can. Steve’s already found him, it’ll only be a matter of time before he brings backup.

The first time he does, it fails, his human arm giving out under him as an electric shock resonates through his synapses. And he tries again, this time letting a hoarse, frustrated shout as he collapses back to the ground. His head seems to want to stay in position, unable to handle even the slightest of twitches. Getting out of bed, it appears, will have been the easiest part of his day.

 _The metal arm_ , it hisses, like he’s being stupid. He probably is, refusing to use it, but he likes to forget about its existence until at least 10 o’clock. Giving in to the agony, he heaves himself up by the metal arm, which doesn’t give in no matter how much weight falls on it, although he does have to catch himself once with his other arm. The headache burns, like fire shooting bullets into his forehead (if there ever was such a possibility) but he does his breathing exercises and forces it down to a minimal ache. It still feels like his brain is heaving its way out of his skull but it’ll do.

Moving doesn’t help but his stomach is grumbling so he grabs the white-painted wall and pushes himself along it and towards the kitchen area. It’s only a studio apartment, with nothing but a mattress, a few basic appliances (fridge, stove, sink, toilet, shower) and a counter or two. The walls are peeling, even though there isn’t any wallpaper in sight, and the floorboards look like they should have been replaced a decade ago. There’s definitely a roach or twenty around.

It’s worse than what he lived in at the height of the Great Depression, which really says something about his new standards.

Withstanding the urge to beat his head against one of the counters and bludgeon himself to death, he gets out a packet of eggs from the fridge and decides ‘to hell with it!’ and cracks them straight into his mouth. The taste is awful and the stench is worse but it’s nutrition he direly needs and alleviates the stomach cramping enough that he really gets to focus on his fucking brain.

He loves his brain, for all the shitty piece of equipment it is.

 _It’s not that bad_.

He’s going to fucking kill his brain.

The day follows a similar pattern, barring him from any dreamt-up attempts at living his life for the last day is will go on for. Before he’s locked in an underground prison and forced to do nothing for eternity, that is. It’s not the pain, though, that’s entirely holding him back. It eases up throughout the day although, really, it’s probably still worse than most people’s worst migraines and he’s gotten himself back on the mattress where he can stare at the ceiling in peace. Except he’s not at peace, because his shit-for-brains has deemed it the right time to fucking harass him.

_You’ve really given up?_

“I didn’t think you cared,” he mutters, feeling silly for even responding. Thinking something is one thing, responding aloud is another. Well, lunacy was going to come sooner or later, better get it over with.

_I want a mission._

“Of course you do. But we ain’t got any handlers, pal, so you can give up on the dream.”

_We function worse without a mission._

“Depends on your standards.”

_You have very low standards._

“Oh don’t get fucking snarky with me. You’re a robot who doesn’t even exist apart from in my head.”

_You are still mentally aware. That means we are at an optimal status for completing the mission._

“You’ve already pointed out the lack of one to complete, buddy.”

_Then we complete the last one._

Bucky doesn’t mean to shout but the ‘no’ comes out in one guttural, almost primal, shout. “We are _not_ completing the last mission,” he spits vehemently; it’s like his head is clear and all he can see is one goal, a simple one at that. Don’t, for the love of God, kill Steve.

_It would be easy. He trusts us._

“That’s not the point, pal.”

_We should complete the mission. Mission failure means punishment._

“You’re punishment enough.”

The voice just scoffs, in the flat way that only a robot can. It’s scary, Bucky thinks, how something so dead can be inside him. How he can be one person and the voice in his head another.

Bucky knows what Steve would do if he found out. The fear on his face, battling with the urge to worry and care and do all the things Steve Rogers always fucking tries to do, even though that’s _Bucky’s_ job and he knows it.

_Steve doesn’t take care of you. I do. Survival is paramount._

Bucky scoff this time. “All you want me to do is do the mission, which is going to get me killed so don’t talk about ‘survival instincts’.”

_The mission stops punishment._

“There’s no one fucking to punish us!” He shouts in frustration, his hand slapping against his head as if it's trying to pry the voice from his head, like it’s a physical parasite.

_You should stop thinking about Steve. Thinking about him distracts us from the mission._

“He is the fucking mission!”

_Captain America is the mission._

“One and the same, buddy.”

The voice stays ominously quiet for a second.

_You should let me take over._

“Why the fuck would I let that happen?”

_Survival is paramount. I can keep you alive. You cannot._

“Well, maybe I don’t want to be alive then.”

_Survival is paramount._

“So you keep saying! I. Don’t. Care. You’re not taking over.”

_Survival is paramount. I will help us survive._

“You’re not fucking taking over. End of story. Frankly, I don’t even know if you can.”

_I can if you let me._

“Then no. Fuck off.” Bucky clambers to his feet and groans as the pain hits in one heady rush. If he thought he was one second off suicide yesterday, he was wrong. This is so much fucking worse.

The day follows in the same vein. Bucky monotonously gets through his tasks, letting himself collapse at regular intervals to breathe through the agonising numbness. The voice continues to speak but he doesn’t let it get to him. Or, well, he tries not to. He ignores when he stumbles and the voice makes another offer to take over, or where he burns himself and the voice almost shouts with glee.

He ignores it when he’s lying awake in bed, tossing and turning, the sheets sopping with his fearful sweat. He ignores how it sneers, like an animal that takes delight in suffering. It’s the most range of emotions Bucky’s ever seen in the Soldier but then again, the Soldier - no matter how much Bucky doesn’t want it to be true - is a person too. He’s human. A fucked up, sadistic _human_. It doesn’t think, it just complies but even Bucky can’t conjure that back up in his mind so instead he’s made this. This robotic sadist who revels in his agony. He is no longer Bucky and the voice is no longer the Winter Soldier. He hates it anyway. It’s everything bad compartmentalised into one slimy voice. A breeding ground for bullying.

_I could help you sleep. If you let me take over._

“You’re lying.”

_But you would be asleep. Or you could be. You wouldn’t need to be present whilst we complete the mission._

“I will die before I let you complete the mission.”

_You shouldn’t have jurisdiction over the body. The body needs to complete the mission._

“No, it doesn’t. Not when I’m in control. I’ll show you I can do this. I’ll prove you wrong,” he promises to his bedroom ceiling. “I will, or I’ll die trying.” It’s melodramatic and stupid but just saying the words aloud somehow makes it a thousand times better.

_This will not work._

“But I’m gonna try anyway, pal.”

~*~

Like a stain getting rubbed into the carpet, Bucky’s attempts at ‘trying’ only serve to make it worse. His headache fades and in place of it is a clumsiness and awkwardness that he can’t remember having since he was 13. Steve, for reasons beyond Bucky’s comprehension, has not come and gotten him yet, so he braves humanity in hopes that maybe this hell will be over. The Soldier can’t take him over if he’s in jail. Or, well, he can but the mission is compromised at that point and suicide protocols take place. It’ll be futile.

_We will survive. We always survive._

“Unless under orders not to,” Bucky mutters under his breath, which doesn’t fail to catch the attention of a few people he’s walking by. New York accepts a lot of crazy but a dishevelled man that reeks of cigarettes and dirt talking under his breath still raises people hackles.

He attempts to raise his head and act like he’s fine. Strides like Bucky Barnes would have strides, places a tacky smirk on his lips that sends people scattering rather than swooning. Must come across more murderous than flirtatious but that’s alright. He lets himself just act blank, like another fella walking through Brooklyn with places to go and things to do.

It doesn’t work.

A man shouts and he flinches so hard he hits a wall. A siren passes and he cowers, hands desperately trapping his ears. Someone drops a drink and the splatter reminds him of blood: he has the shivers for another fifteen minutes.

His heart breaks in two and he can’t even do anything to stop it. He knew this was a farce, that a desperate attempt to act normal was never going to work but seeing the consequences of it now is nothing short of agonising. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he’d genuinely thought it was possible. That maybe he could show up at Steve’s door and smile convincingly and have his happy ever after.

It’s all a fucking lie.

He needs to strike a lighter under his fucking love letter and leave the dream alone, let the weeds seep in until its useless.

_Good. Now, let me take over. We will complete the mission._

“Fuck no,” he grits out, shifting his head to the wall like it might hide his mouth movement from onlookers. It won’t; the twitch of his head only serves to make him look more insane.

_You lack the courage to even complete your goals. Let me do it._

“Our goals don’t exactly align.”

_I can complete the mission._

“No, you won’t. You can’t.” He stops dead in the middle of the street and as calm as the ocean tides, the crowds split ways, leaving him in his own metre-wide bubble as people try and escape his stench. “I want to see Steve, not kill him.”

_But you can’t. Because you’re a coward._

Bucky blinks. “I’m not a coward.” He sets off in a direction, his one-track mind meaning he doesn’t even think about the destination, he just takes the familiar turns until he’s in front of the door.

_Let me complete the mission._

“I’m completing my own mission, buddy,” he says and raises his hand to hover over the door. Farewell cowardice, he things. Farewell this damn wanderlust that sends him to far corners of the world in hopes to escape the endless torrent of memories, to hide from the one man he needs to the most.

_This is stupid._

“This is on you. You may have brought me to this year, but I’m the one who’s going to be there at the end of it. And I’m going to do it my way.” He knocks. Farewell, Soldier, he thinks. Fare-fucking-well.

And farewell Bucky. The man he used to be. Whoever he is now, it’s not him. And it’s not the Soldier. And it’s not the actual Winter Soldier, as dead and compliant as he was. This is just him. James Buchanan Barnes, lost and found, a new man, for better or worse.

Maybe he’s a bit of the Soldier, maybe a bit of Bucky; maybe he’s some dangerous concoction of his past but he doesn’t care. He can feel the drug of life in his veins, the wish to do something with this limited time he has. He’s been broken, buried and burnt. Now it’s time to crawl his way out of the grave and put on a brave face.

The memories are there, an ode to what he once was. And now he can make new ones, an ode to who he now is. He’s fucked up, that’s just how the Soldier’s left him, but he’s alive.

He’s _alive_.

Then Steve opens the door and every bit of fear and anger and cowardice comes rushing back, taking him off his feet and slamming him back into his own early grave.

The sight of Steve’s face, open and concerned, is like a knife into his heart, stabbing over and over and over as his face morphs into complete disbelief. “Bucky?” He whispers, like this wasn’t a possibility, like Bucky’s a ghost on his porch, haunting him to an early grave.

Bucky doesn’t stay anything, his mouth staunchly shut. He doesn’t think he could speak if he wanted to; it’s as if there are stitches in his lips and every time he pulls, an agonising spear of pain runs through his body. His eyes are wide, blue shimmering in the dying light.

This is…this is too much. He wasn’t actually ready. He’d been so desperate to prove the Soldier wrong that he hadn’t even taken into account what his reactions might have been. There’s a _reason_ he’s been avoiding Steve and it’s this. In the bar, he could pretend Steve was someone else. A stranger, even just plain ol’ Captain America. But now, this is his choice. This is him coming to Steve as Bucky, best friend from childhood and battlefield. This comes with expectations and weight and fear. This comes with memories long forgotten and too many that haven’t escaped.

“Bucky,” Steve repeats, like he’s trying to capture his attention again. Bucky realises his eyes have drifted, blankly staring to the side. “Do you remember me?” Steve asks once Bucky’s eyes have drifted back, clouded with fear.

“Yes,” he whispers because he doesn’t think he can lie right now.

“Are you alright?”

“No.”

“Do you want to come in?”

“I don’t know.” Steve’s face falls, despair etched into every worried crease that Bucky’s caused. It’s enough for Bucky’s mind to go blank and almost automatically step closer, edging past Steve to go inside. Steve doesn’t seem to care about the intrusion, following Bucky into his own home, slowly urging him into the main space.

Bucky’s both surprised and dismayed by the fact that Steve has a _home_. A house, for God’s sake. Not an apartment, a fully-fledged house. “I got this place a couple of weeks ago. I thought we…” It’s clear enough, even with the omission, what Steve is trying to get at. He bought a house for them, for when Bucky comes back.

“I’m not the same person I was,” Bucky feels obliged to point out.

“I know. Neither am I.”

“This is…” _a lot_.

“There’s no expectations, Buck. This is mine for now and if you ever want to…well, there’s a lot to happen first before all this. Don’t sweat about it.” Bucky will. He definitely, definitely will.

There’s a silence, a pause too long to be natural, where Steve lists from side to side like he can’t quite pretend to be casual. “You scared us,” Steve admits, taking Bucky aback with its honesty. Steve’s downfall is pride, and stoicism and never fucking telling one when he’s struggling. To admit to fear, well…fuck, he must have been terrified.

“Sorry.”

“No, don’t apologise. I’m just…I’m really glad you’re here.” Steve looks like he’s about to cry and Bucky really can’t handle that right now. He’s torn between curling up on Steve’s couch and fleeing, his heart and mind torn in two by fear and longing. “Um, do you mind if I just get changed? I only just got back from…” Steve motions down at himself and Bucky blanches. How did he not notice before? Steve is almost in full gear, his suit loose and undone but there, still torn and battered from the hellicarriers. Bucky feels the sudden urge to be sick, held back only by years of training and fortitude.

“That’s fine,” he says hoarsely.

Steve hurries off upstairs, presumably to where the bedrooms are. The house, Bucky guesses, is three floors, although they’re not all that large in size. From what he can see, the first holds a living-room/kitchen combo and a toilet but that’s all. It’s pristine, probably giving away how little Steve has been here, or at least how little time he’s had it for. It’s been refurbished, though, done in mute, modern beiges with tasteful but bland paintings and sleek granite countertops.

Frankly, it makes Bucky feel like a piece of dirt on the pristine floor.

He spies the door from the corner of his eyes and steps forward, his foot hesitating once he lands. Can he really just leave? After all this. Steve would be devastated, that much he knows. But can Bucky really handle this? A perfect life with a perfect man in a goddamn perfect house?

Does he _deserve it_?

_You should complete the mission._

Bucky flinches and almost trips over his own feet. The voice, of course, grows louder among insecurities, like it’s the light that fires it, making its words burn harsher, brighter, faster.

Bucky’s out the door in seconds.

He can’t make Steve put up with that. With Bucky. With every bit of baggage he brings along the way and more. He can’t make Steve deal with the fucking voice in his head.

 _Coward_.

“Oh, fuck off!” He screams. He can’t handle it anymore. He’s about a block away now, stuck on the street corner, heaving breaths in like he can’t even do normal human functions. It’s a struggle, the breaths coming in ragged and harsh and the deeper he breathes, the more he feels like he’s losing breath.

_I can stop this if you let me take over._

“No,” he grits out, one hand grasping his head.

_You know you want me to take over. You want it to stop._

“Shut up.”

_I can make it stop._

“Stop it.”

_I will fix this. I will complete the mission._

“I’m an idiot. You’re not even real.”

_I am a part of you._

“Exactly. So we’re one and the same. You can’t just…take over. If you’re in charge, I’m still here, ready to take back over again. You’re just a voice, not a person. You can’t do anything.”

_I can help you complete the mission._

“The mission I don’t want to complete. You’re just a sign that I was broken. And I don’t want to be that anymore,” he murmurs, his eyes turning up to the sky. It’s a flood of orange now, a red stripe scarring the horizon. It feels fitting to watch the red fade, the blood seeping out from daylight’s eyes as the moon shines bright in the sky. “I can be more than this,” he promises himself. And if I stop listening to you, he thinks, then that’s the first step to deserving all this.

He won’t feel comfortable until the voice is gone but just the acknowledgement that it means nothing feels like a first step. And even if he goes back five from here, he’s taken the first. He’s tried. That feels like enough.

He goes back down the block and knocks on the door for the second time, each rap clear and concise. There’s a pause, which leaves Bucky more time than he’d like to think but he knows he needed it. The chance to second guess himself to check, this time, whether he’s ready for this and the things that come next. Steve. A trial. Imprisonment. Maybe freedom at the end of; an ending that only comes in his wildest dreams but feels so much more solid when he sees the determination behind Steve’s eyes.

It a few seconds, he says goodbye to his fear. He follows his last routine; he says goodbye to what he was and hello to who he is. He does it one last time, hoping this time it will fucking stick. It’s like the darkness seeps away and gives way to the light, and although it can’t get rid of the nightmares or the lies or the pain, it feels like a chance to.

Steve opens the door.

“I thought you’d-“

“I’m sorry for leaving. I needed to get some things straight but I’m good now. Ready to do what comes next.”

“How about we go inside first?”

“Sounds good,” Bucky says, a smile quirking the side of his lips. Steve’s face softens and his smile follows. “I’m really glad you’re back, Buck, I mean it.”

“I know you do. Now, you got any coffee?”

Steve laughs, hearty and free, head thrown back like Bucky’s just said the best joke in the world. “Seems that in all shapes and sizes, Bucky Barnes loves coffee.”

“You got that right.” Steve treads into the kitchen to start the machine but Bucky notices the way he tries to keep Bucky in sight, his eyes darting back and forth. Taking pity on him, Bucky comes to stand in the kitchen beside him, feigning casual as he leans against the countertop.

“I’m sorry for all this,” he apologises quietly, “for the running and the hiding and, well, all of it. I just…needed time. I wish it could have gone differently.”

Steve sighs. “But you wouldn’t change it, would you?”

“No. I needed it. But it would have always ended in this, you know. I would have always come back.”

Steve smiles at his feet. “I’m glad you think so.”

“You know I remember most of it? I can’t promise it’s all of it but it feels like a lot. Before and after Hydra.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. And I don’t…I don’t feel like I’m the guy in any of the memories, honestly. But I’m glad I have them.”

“Even the Winter Soldier’s?”

“Someone needs to remember what I’ve done, there’s no better person than me.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

“But I want to. I’m not fragile, Steve, I can handle it.”

“You still shouldn’t have to.”

“You’re as stubborn as ever, you know that?” Bucky says with a smile.

“Some things never change,” Steve says with a shrug, pouring the coffee into two mugs and handing one over. Bucky’s hands wrap around the mug, relishing in the heat and the comfort of familiarity. The smell is like heaven and the taste even better. It’s nice, he thinks, that some things really do stay the same.

“What do you think’s gonna happen next?” Bucky asks cautiously, taking in a deep breath and letting the rich smell attack his senses, blurring the outside world for just one heady second.

“There’s going to be a trial. But you know I’ll fight tooth and nail for you, Buck. And if they…if they say you’re guilty, that’s not going to stop me.”

“Didn’t think it would.” Bucky pauses, looks up and let his eyes catch on Steve’s. “But it should.”

“You know me,” Steve says with a shrug.

Bucky smiles, ducking back down to take a sip of coffee, letting the mug hide his face. “I guess I do, punk.”

“Jerk,” Steve whispers softly, a look of bittersweet agony moving his features. “Until the end of the line, right?”

Bucky’s breath hitches but he means it when he confirms, “until the end of the line.”


End file.
